Nocturne

If a coincidence goes on long enough, they say, it becomes inevitability. I could think of no line better suited to the situation I found myself in.

It was a night of wavering candlelight. For the first time in a long while I riffled open a grimoire and drew out the palm-sized sheet I had kept pressed carefully between its pages.

A letter from Mrs. Diemann, given to me when I set out along the smuggling route. I held it to the candle for a time, turning it this way and that, then set it on the desk and picked up a second sheet.

Unlike the letter, which I had come by four months earlier, this paper was something I had been handed comparatively recently.

...

Coincidence had stacked itself three times over. A shared given name I could have dismissed as chance easily enough, but learning that he was a young man about my own age made me tilt my head—and in the end I confirmed that even the surname was the same.

"Mrs. Diemann. The Federation is a smaller place than I thought."

The season was winter. Snowflakes had begun to drift down out of the sky, one and then another.

The encyclopedia that had been the wellspring of my knowledge back in the Empire was not devoted to scholarship and technical matters alone. On the contrary, the arts—painting, music, and the rest—together with philosophy occupied something like half its pages.

At the time, though, I had next to no interest in any of it. That was only natural. In a ruined empire there was no leisure to spare a glance for pastimes that had nothing to do with staying alive. Even I, whose circumstances were better than most, was no exception; I could hardly have cared for paintings I had never seen, or for the history of music I had never heard. Philosophy, crammed with pedantic language, went without saying. Literature had managed to stir a little curiosity, but even that was only so I might learn Frauvian.

And so, for a very long time, culture had simply not existed in my life.

The Federation was different. Street musicians crowded every corner, and on the wall of nearly every shop hung a framed painting. There were libraries, where ordinary citizens could enjoy books too costly to own, and at mealtimes people would sometimes lose themselves in debate. Scenes like those had moved me no less than steamships or trains.

I bring all this up so abruptly for no reason other than this.

I had received just such an invitation from Werner.

December—immediately after I had checked the results of the entrance examination.

A month and a half had passed since that day. At first I hadn't the faintest idea what sort of invitation it was, and no intention of going; but from scraps I had picked up since, I came to understand, more or less, what it meant.

The Nocturne Club. A social circle about which nearly every fact lay under a veil. The place, unknown. The host, unknown. One could enter only with a member's letter of recommendation—and, true to that secrecy, it was said to gather renowned artists and scholars not only from Fraussen, but from across the whole of the Federation.

From the circumstances, I guessed that Werner was a member himself, and that what he had pressed into my hand was a recommendation that would let me attend. A good opportunity, I thought. I needed to meet him in private anyway, if only to deliver Mrs. Diemann's letter. I would still have to find some way of not being found out as a stowaway from the Empire.

And so the day I had fixed upon in my heart was today. The twenty-second of January.

And yet.

"No matter how I look at it, something's off."

Once the day itself arrived, a sigh escaped me. A woman was watching, openly entertained, as I clutched my head with a troubled look on my face. Lily Lovelace, director of the telegraph office.

"Our little auxiliary operator. I wondered what you were doing on your break—looks like you've gotten yourself tangled up in something amusing."

"Does it look that way?"

"Mm. Your face is entertaining."

It was break time at the Eastern Telegraph Office. Ordinarily, the moment the bell announced the rest, the staff would swarm a table and fall into chatter. But the director had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a habit of planting herself across from me whenever she grew bored, a viciously strong pipe clenched between her teeth, and because of that no one dared approach the little table where I usually sat. Today, once again, I found myself seated face to face with her.

"...Your face looks rather entertaining too, Director."

"Doesn't it? Because I actually am entertaining."

Affairs at the Eastern Telegraph Office had settled a great deal. Director Lovelace's complexion, once worn thin with fatigue, had improved considerably—but the mischievous smile that lived on that decadent face showed no sign of ever leaving. She crossed her legs, put a fresh light to her pipe, and asked,

"So. What's the matter?"

Tell her, or don't. I hesitated a moment, then decided to be honest.

"...Director. Have you ever heard of the Nocturne Club?"

"The Nocturne Club."

The leaf caught with a soft flare, and smoke rose.

"Someone of my station couldn't fail to know it, even if she tried."

"Do people usually go around calling themselves upper class?"

"Intellectuals from every walk of life, promising students, or else the rich who've simply acquired a taste for patronizing that sort. The rumors never stop, but I've never actually met anyone who claimed to be a member."

"Hmm. Is that so."

"Don't tell me, Eugene."

Director Lovelace, who had been holding the smoke, suddenly opened her eyes wide and leaned in until our noses nearly touched. Her loose blonde hair tickled my face as she whispered, and every time her lips parted, the scent of scorched herbs prickled my nose.

"You didn't receive an invitation, did you?"

"...When you put it like that, it's a little frightening. If I say yes, am I going to be hauled off?"

"Heh heh. Nothing like that. Which means you really did get one. Heavens."

A little of the mischief left her face. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Only a little—but she looked genuinely startled.

"An invitation to the Nocturne Club. Eugene, what are you?"

"Pardon?"

What was I? I was swallowing my breath ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠when she went on, her expression serious.

"Has word already gotten around that you're some genius of magic? You only said you'd done decently on the entrance exam. No—before that, who gave you the invitation?"

Ah. So that was the sort of identity she meant. Relief washed through me, and I kept my mouth shut. Something told me that particular question was one I ought not answer. Disappointment promptly settled over Director Lovelace's face.

"You won't even tell me that... If I could only become a member, I'm quite confident I could wring a fortune in investment out of them."

So that had been her impure design.

"Eugene. If you become a member later, invite me, won't you? I'll treat you well. Hm?"

Pretending to dodge the tobacco smoke, I gently ignored her and sank into thought. Whatever else might be said, judging by Director Lovelace's reaction, the fame of the Nocturne Club exceeded anything I had imagined. She might have been a half-discarded child of her house, but she was unmistakably upper-class born, and words from her mouth carried more weight than rumors drifting through the streets.

But.

...

Still. Something was off. It wasn't that I particularly distrusted Director Lovelace, or Werner. What troubled me was nothing other than the contents of the invitation. Besides the meeting place, Werner had written one more thing, and that something was absurd.

...

What in the world was this supposed to be? My resolve had been settled long ago, and still this grotesque dress code had me by the ankle. A society of intellectuals? This was a company of clowns.

I was turning it over, breathing in the pipe smoke I had by now grown used to, when I sensed someone directly behind me.

"...Lena?"

"The Nocturne Club. What an interesting topic. Wouldn't you say, Director—you, with a mountain of work piled up?"

It was Lena. As always, she had an armful of document folders clutched to her chest, and she was glaring at Director Lovelace with a sharp look. How long had she been listening? Even the director, who had been smoking with relish and letting off a bewitching air, went rigid under that cold gaze. She had something to feel guilty about—most likely she had abandoned her work to come lounge about. It was hardly the first time, and perhaps Lena no longer felt it worth a lecture. She let out one deep sigh, then spoke.

"Never mind. That aside, it isn't as if there's no one at all known to be a member of the Nocturne Club."

That was not something I could let pass. When I asked who, Lena answered with a face so visibly crumpled it was hard to miss.

"The wastrel of the Fourth School. Werner Ross Diemann."

...

"A famous figure, in all sorts of ways. The sort of person who, even on pain of death, would never get along with me."

I was inclined to agree. I had yet to have a deep conversation with Werner, but compatibility between people is something you can more or less see. I laughed, lightly. Looking at Lena's crumpled expression, I found myself laughing for reasons I couldn't quite name—and at the same time, all my fretting until now began to feel pointless.

"Eugene. Why are you laughing?"

"Hahaha. No. It's nothing. More importantly, let me take some of those documents."

"Wha— I-I'm fine."

Whether she was fine or not, I wrested about seven-tenths of the papers out of her arms and carried them with her to the director's office. Director Lovelace was hauled along by one of Lena's hands and deposited, more or less by force, inside.

"I'll be off, then."

"Eugene. Wait a moment."

I had set the documents on the desk and was about to return to my work when the director drew something from a drawer and held it out to me. An elegant wooden case, its contents a mystery. Even at a glance, it looked expensive.

"What is this?"

"A pipe."

"...Pardon?"

"You're of age now, aren't you? Call it a performance bonus and take it."

Director Lovelace smiled.

"I recommend you bring it along ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠when you go to the Nocturne Club."

That night, I told Susan and Lena I was going out, and stepped through the door.

...In a hat, with no necktie and the third button undone, mismatched shoes on my feet, and a pipe in one hand.